A Night at the Theatre
"His dream was prophetic...." whispered a tear-stricken Mary-Todd as she looked upon her dying husband, lying on the scarlet floor. Three days, a mere three days before, he had recounted a dream to her... "There seemed to be a death-like stillness about me. Then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I thought I left my bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same pitiful sobbing, but the mourners were invisible. I went from room to room; no living person was in sight, but the same mournful sounds of distress met me as I passed along. I saw light in all the rooms; every object was familiar to me; but where were all the people who were grieving as if their hearts would break? I was puzzled and alarmed. What could be the meaning of all this? Determined to find the cause of a state of things so mysterious and so shocking, I kept on until I arrived at the East Room, which I entered. There I met with a sickening surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse wrapped in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers who were acting as guards; and there was a throng of people, gazing mournfully upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully. 'Who is dead in the White House?' I demanded of one of the soldiers, 'The President,' was his answer; 'he was killed by an assassin.' Then came a loud burst of grief from the crowd, which woke me from my dream. I slept no more that night; and although it was only a dream, I have been strangely annoyed by it ever since." -Abraham Lincoln It was the evening of April 14, 1865. Mary-Todd and her husband, Abraham Lincoln were off to a night at the theatre. Wearing a black and white silk dress and a black veil in her hair, Mary-Todd held the arm of the President as they acsended the red carpeted stairs to the President's box. There they sat down with two of their friends, Major Henry Rathbone and Miss Clara Harris, to watch a british comedy titled "Our American Cousin". Mary-Todd nuzzled up very close to Mr. Lincoln, her hand in his. "What will Miss Harris think of my hanging on to you so?" she whispered sweetly in his ear. He said "She won't think anything about it." And they smiled and turned back to the play, not saying another word. The play was alright, but the guard was growing bored. Outside the door to the president's box, he shifted restlessly. He decided that since it was still early in the play, he could run across the street to the bar, have a drink, and be back in time for curtain call. At about 10:15, actor Harry Hawk stood alone onstage. He was putting on a wonderful preformance. "Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal - you sockdologizing old mantrap!" And right then, the audience laughed and John Wilkes Booth, an acclaimed actor himself, had been waiting outside the door to the president's booth. He earlier took out a knife and gouged a hole in the door where he looked upon the profile of Abraham Lincoln as he watched the play. As the audience laughed, Booth took out a pistol, threw open the door, and shot the President in the back of the head at near point-blank range. BANG! Mary-Todd screamed, still clutching her husband's hand. Major Rathbone lept to his feet and grabbed John Wilkes Booth. They struggled and fought, but Booth pulled out his knife and stabbed Rathbone near his shoulder. Booth then turned to jump from the balcony and a wounded Lincoln sat up and grabbed onto Booth's coat causing him to dangle over the balcony. As Booth tired to turn around to stab at Lincoln, Lincoln lost all his stength and slumped back in his seat, causing Booth to fall. The spur of Booth's boot ripped through an American flag as he fell, making him land hard and unsteadily on the stage 11 feet below. There was a crack as a bone in his leg snapped and Rathbone, still bleeding profusely cried out "Stop that man!" Onstage, Booth yelled "Sic Semper Tyrannis!", Latin for "As Always to Tyrants" holding up the scarlet knife. With that, he roughly fled past the stunned actor onstage and escaped on horseback out the back door. The crowd began to stand and stare up at the box and in shock at the stage, pointing and talking in panic when voices began screaming from the President's box. "The President has been shot!" "Is there a doctor in the house?" Charles Leale was the first doctor to reach the president. A young man of only 23 years old, he numbly knelt at the president's side. Lincoln had his arm around Mary-Todd attempting to comfort her but he was barley breathing, unable to speak and he could hardly move. Blood was dripping from the hole in the back of his head. Mary-Todd was in histerics, tears streaming down her face. "Oh, Doctor! Is he dead? Can he recover? Will you take charge of him? Oh, my dear husband! My dear husband!" A few soliders helped lay the president on the floor. Using brandy and water, the doctor managed to stop the bleeding and was able to get Mr. Lincoln to breathe more stronger and his heart to beat feebly. "The wound is mortal. He can not recover." said Charles Leale dark and shakily. "His dream was prophetic," whispered Mary-Todd as tears continued to roll down her cheeks. Loving hands of soliders carried President Lincoln out of the theatre and across the street to a house where he could lay in a comfortable bed before...well... Crowds followed and gathered in the street. Rathbone followed the president loyally, leaving a trail of blood from the knife wound. His blood was accompanied by a trail of tears as he and Mary followed the soliders into the small brick house. They laid him diagonally on the bed, Lincoln lost consciousness. Mary lost sight of him as he went up the steps and into the house before her. "Where is my husband? Where is my husband?! Why didn't he kill me, why was I not the one?" Mary reached the doorway with Clara Harris and Laura Keene, the female lead of the play they had been watching that evening. Mary ran to the bedside and kissed her husband's cheeks and forehead, crying. The doctors arrived and asked her to wait in the front room. The nation stood powerless, watching death slowly circle closer and closer to Father Abe. Robert, Lincoln's son, arrived as soon as he heard. The younger son, Tad, had been watching a play at the time. His tutor was with him and heard the news. Tad was brought back to the white house and put to bed. Robert spent the night's long vigil with his mother. He tried to comfort her, but often fell to tears himself. It was a long, dark, painful night and wife and son held eachother, watching their beloved husband and father die. At 6:00 in the morning, heavy rain began to pour over the streets of Washington D.C. The morning was grey, cold, and colorless, Mary made another visit to her husband's room. He was breathing at long intervals. His skin looked deathly pale. ""Love, live but one moment to speak to me once - to speak to our children." And she cried out and fell weak from sorrow and pain to the floor. With that, she was removed from the room and not to be let back in. In the front room, she cried out, voice high with sorrow and anger, "Oh, my God, and I have given my husband to die!" Mary was allowed to come back into the room an hour later as the President started to breath slower. At 7:22, not even a half-hour later, our 16th president breathed his last. As he gave up his last breath, he smiled weakly. His wife kissed him and she kelt for a prayer. Two hours later, she was led slowly to the rain-drenched street, where she screamed our brokenly and furiously, pointing at Ford's theatre "That dreadful house!-- That dreadful house! This awful place!" Her words echoed down the rainy, mourning street. The nation raised it's voices, it's pens, and it's paintbrushes and cried out in sorrow "The president is dead, The president is dead." The wails of the mourners and the bag pipes intermingled as one, making an eerie, but strangely beautiful, harmony. Adding a bass line to the harmony was the simultaneous foot fall of the procession. Every now and then, someone would cry out, louder than the rest, and have short, woeful solo. When you didn't think about the reason of why this strange music was playing, it was almost magnificent. But then you'd remember why, and the despair would swallow up the brief joy. It was April 19th, 1865. The funeral procession for President Abraham Lincoln somberly trudged down Pennsylvania Avenue. Those who weren't in the actual procession, lingered along the edges and watched with tearful eyes as they passed. The procession was a sea of black, all dressed in mourning. In fact, wherever they looked there was black. Black black and more black. The shops along the avenue were closed up for the despondent event. Even the candy store had their curtains brought together tightly, hiding the cheerful and colorful atmosphere; Although, instead of the usual rainbow-striped curtains, the curtains were as black as night, matching all the mourners. There also wasn't a dry eye in the audience. Even the bravest and most stubborn of men allowed a few tears to run down their cheeks in a race to his chin. The air itself seemed to cry, sprinkles of rain falling down from the grey sky to kiss the crowds' cheeks tenderly, like a mother kisses a child. A young boy was not afraid to let his tears run. As they traveled down his face, a couple made it into his mouth. The taste was salty and warm, briny even, reminding me of the salted meat Father would bring home some times. It was not a good taste. Once his nose began to run, he gave in to his Mother's handkerchief, which she held out in a perpetual offer. When he rubbed his nose dry, for the moment anyway, he could suddenly smell all that his snot blocked out before. At first, it was a pleasant smell. They were so crowded together that he could smell all the women's perfume. The scents all fused together, giving off a flowery, powdery, and a slightly fruity aroma. But then, the pleasing bouquet of fragrance was slapped from under my nose and replaced with the odors of musky and dirty people who could not have bathed in weeks, it seemed. The air suddenly felt tight and uncomfortable. He quickly shoved the damp handkerchief back under his nose. As his nose became accustomed to the handkerchief's scent, he smoothed down his best dress with his free hand. It was black as night, or so it used to be. Now, the dress was a faded black, like the sky before a storm. The dress was rough and worn, a hand-me-down, but it was presentable despite the unspooling fabric near the hem. His sister, from whom he received the dress from, claimed that the dress once had white lace with roses and swirls on the sleeves and hem. Something was definitely there before, because the fabric was slightly ripped and thin. His eyes, stinging and most likely very red, landed on his mother's gown. It was silk, smooth silk and it looked like water shimmering in the sunlight every time Mother moved. It was beautiful, and probably the most precious possession of his mother's -besides her family, of course. His mind wandered some more as the procession tromped on and on endlessly. Seriously, the sea of black was never ending. Wave after wave of people dressed in dismal, black clothes followed one after the other. The President himself, rest his soul, passed by us a long time ago. He started to get impatient, despite his feelings of sorrow toward the President's death, and he tugged at his mother's silk gown. He didn't tug too hard, for fear of ripping the fragile fabric that felt like the skin of a new born baby between his fingers. "Mamma," the boy murmured softly, so not to interrupt the prayers of those around us. "Is it time to go?" "Hush now, Annabelle." My mother snapped quietly, her voice catching slightly in her throat. "We are goin' wait like ever'body else." With a frown, he dropped his hand from her dress, feeling hurt from her tone of voice. Then, he realized that she wasn't mad at him. Mother was sad. She was as teary-eyed as she was when Grandpapa died. He reached back out to her and took her shaky hand in his own. Mother squeezed his hand and leaned down to kiss him on the head. As she stood back up, he could smell Mother's perfume. It was the one that Father gave her for her birthday. It wasn't flowery, like the other women smelled like. No, it was the scent of trees just after a rain. It was Mother's favorite smell, and his, too. Finally, just when he was beginning to think that this procession was endless, the last few drops of black from the sea of mourning straggled forward and turned around the bend to follow the others. The crowds waiting along the edges then began to move, but slowly, as if they just came out of a dream. Most marched after the procession, wanting to blend in with the black sea. Others fell to their knees and raised their hands skyward, crying out to God in soulful prayer. Some just silently turned and went in the other direction. When his mother did not move, he yanked their entwined hands a little. "Mamma?" She didn't answer for a while, and he thought she didn't hear him. But, it was quieter than the inside of a church during the Father's sermon. The rain had slowed from sprinkles to spittle, and then it was gone. The dismal clouds started to part, revealing a beautiful and clear blue sky behind it. Then, the beam of colors slowly appeared as the clouds began to sulk away and it turned into a shape of the face of Mr. Lincoln but this time, there was a smile on his face. Then it vanished and a rainbow appeared behind it. With a smile, the boy pointed up at the rainbow. "Look, mamma!" he cried, jumping up to emphasize. His mother released a long stream of air from her parted lips as her red eyes looked upon the rainbow. They've never seen such a beautiful expression. Mother pulled her son close, her silk dress enclosing him in what he imagined as a fluffy white cloud's embrace. She kissed the top of his head again, and this time he didn't feel the dampness of her tears. From the moment President Lincoln died, he will be remembered, in a year's time he will be remembered, in thousands of year's time will be remembered, in millions of year's time he will be remembered, it may just be one single death on the face of this small meaningless planet but he will never be forgotten by its people. THE END